Indiana Jones and the Spirits of Avalon
by Carabiner Boy
Summary: CHAPTER SIX UP! Indy's back, and better than ever. Baddies, wit, and general supernatural mayhem galore! Please read it, I feel insecure and unloved if I don't get reviews... just kidding. But no really.
1. The Serpent's Lair

Author's Note: Huh. I really have a habit of doing author's notes for my stories, even when they really don't need them. Um... yeah. This is a chapter story, or will be, if I get REVIEWS (hint hint). So other than that... Enjoy, and please R&R!

Disclaimer: I don't own Indy, Marcus, or any of the other LucasArts characters mentioned from here on. I did invent a few people in this story, but I think you can figure out who. Yada yada, you know the drill. Sigh... if only I had created the Man with the Hat...

**Indiana Jones and the Spirits of Avalon**

**By Carabiner Boy**

Chapter One: The Serpent's Lair

_Barnett College, New York_

_March 5, 1939_

The beautiful craftsmanship of the Tiki idol was astounding, even to someone as experienced in the realm of artifacts as Indiana Jones. After a few thousand years cooped up in a grave, it still shined, the light from the desk lamp beaming off of its golden surface. It was almost too good to give away. He had thought about keeping it for his own collection, maybe just telling the museum that he had been unable to retrieve it. But then he'd lose their business, and going out in the field was the only sustaining part of his life at the moment. Nonetheless, it seemed to be taking a toll...

He sighed, loosened his tie, and leaned back in the office chair, hands intertwined behind his head. That throbbing, by now a familiar part of his waking life, was coming back again, beating against the side of his head. Stress is what the doctor had said, and even his father had agreed that it was probably an accurate diagnosis. _"Junior," _he had said, _"The man's right. Even I, a stubborn old Jones, can admit that. I admire your work ethic, but it has to stop somewhere. You're an archaeologist, for Christ's sake, not a goddamn secret agent."_

Dad was right, of course. As always. But the thought of sitting in the same dreary classroom day after day, teaching bored college kids about the ins and outs of archaeological study... Now there was a nightmare. Besides, any headache could be cured by a stiff belt of whiskey. He opened the top drawer and extracted a bottle filled with the revitalizing stuff. The name on the front said Old Oscar Pepper Brand. It should have said "Oscar's Miracle Drink," Indy thought, popping the top of on the edge of his aging desk. "For headaches, chest pain, and anything else you might encounter while on life's path." He took a swig.

As the burning sensation passed through his throat, the archaeology professor recounted the events that had led him to acquire the golden statue...

_Douglas Seaplane, en route to the Marquesas Islands_

_One week prior_

The view out of the plane window was amazing: crystal blue water stretched out endlessly before him, seemingly perfect and untouched; small islands sprinkled the surface, the glowing sun shimmering above. Indy might have enjoyed the view more, but eight hours of flying and the constant whir of twin propellors can take the beauty out of anything.

He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the pilot. The man looked like a native, and Indy wondered where the hell he learned how to fly a plane. He looked hefty enough, so it was probably best not ask questions, or do anything that he might take as a provocation, because broken bones were less than fun. Then again, he had killed a man of that size once. With a plane propellor, no less. He almost laughed at the irony, then realized it wasn't all that ironic.

Indy began to drift off, at the same time questioning the logic of taking this job. He had been doing a fair amount of work for the museum in the past year, but this was stretching it. There were bad things going on here, things that a college professor should be dealing with. Eyelids drooping, he tried to forget it. Those kind of thoughts had been penetrating his mind much too often lately...

And suddenly, almost at the moment that his heavy eyes shut and he gave in to weariness, a terrific smash jarred him awake, and he instinctively yelled out. "Hey! What..."

"We here," said his hefty pilot in broken English. _I noticed, _Indy thought, and suddenly felt disturbed that the rickety plane was being held up only by two pontoons, which somehow didn't seem sufficient. He rubbed his eyes and glancing out of the water-specked window. The runway, if one could call it that, was made up of two lines of crudely constructed wooden buoys. The view beyond was far more impressive, however, and the archaeologist couldn't help but letting out an awestruck whistle. Nuku Hiva... The largest island in the Marquesas Island chain had a beauty that could not be described. A white sand beach slowly gave way to a veritable forest of palm trees, behind which lay the many hills and valleys of the island. And then there were the-

"Grave robbers," Indy muttered, as two men stepped out of the dense foliage. "Damn."

The pilot lit a cigarette, no doubt a habit picked up on the mainland, and narrowed his eyes. "Grave robber? Nobody here last time..." He trailed off, and Indy almost kicked himself at his own idiocy. Marcus had warned them that there was some grave pillaging in this area, because of the gold that was put in many of the chieftains' graves. Indy had brushed the warning off. It was a big island. They were most likely in another part altogether.

Idiocy, indeed. He was here to pick up a gold statuette, so it only made sense that _gold _hunters would be in the vicinity...

Gunfire erupted. Indy yelled out and ducked as the seaplane was sprayed with bullets. The windshield exploded and the pilot was killed instantly, slugs ramming into his body, the cigarette dropping from his mouth, igniting... There was a dull _smack _as the spare fuel tank in the back of the cockpit was hit, and Indy slammed through the passenger's side door, into the water. He had to get away, goddamnit-

And the airplane exploded.

The blast rocketed him underwater, so deep that his head felt like it would follow in the aircraft's footsteps. Shards of metal sliced through the water around him. A grunt, and he kicked away from the wreckage, praying to God that the men on the beach didn't decide to let off a few rounds in the water around him.

He kept swimming until he felt that his lungs would implode, then swam some more. Finally he thrust his head from the water, sucking in air as though he had never tasted anything so sweet.

Thankfully, he'd swum in line with the shore, and he was still close. After swimming a few more strokes he was there, and the sand felt cool and damp as it ran through his fingers. Sure, he was _on _the island, but the grave robbers now knew of his existence, even if he was presumed dead, all of his gear was sopping wet, and he didn't have a ride off the Godforsaken place.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a familiar object. He trudged over, and, sweeping up his hat, he shook his head. Sure, he had the fedora, but it was sopping wet, as was everything else. If he got out of this, with or without that damn idol, he was buying himself the most expensive champagne he could find, and he wasn't sharing any.

X

The sharp blade of the machete hacked down again, the thick vines finally giving way. Wiping sweat from his brow, Indy crept farther into the dense forest. Where was he now? The compass in his hand pointed ahead. Due north was where he was headed. According to the map, anyway. It was still sodden from his swim, as was everything else. He only hoped that his Webley still worked, because with each passing minute he felt as though he would need it more and more.

A flurry of exotic birds burst forth from the treetops, angry caws quickly following their departure. Only moments after that loud voices reached his ears. _"Qui cherchons-nous?" _One voice asked. "Who are we looking for?"

Another voice, this one deeper and more controlled, answered, _"L'homme de l'avion. _The man from the plane."

"Isn't he dead?" The younger one answered in French, sounding confused.

"Dubois is convinced he lives, so we must search for him." The elder one answered, somewhat sardonically.

"Yes, well, Dubois isn't paying us to search for a dead man in the jungle. We shouldn't be here."

They both fell silent and continued to walk, cutting their own path through the vines. Unfortunately, it ran straight into Indy's.

The intrepid archaeologist, however, was formulating a plan. Grabbing a long vine from the bough of a tree, he hotfooted it to the other side of his handmade path and tied the other end of the vine to a thick branch, careful to leave enough slack so that the vine drooped harmlessly on the ground. Holding on to the end of the vine, Indy crouched behind a tree. He wished he could just shoot the bastards, but he was probably nearing the grave robbers' camp, and he didn't want to attract any unwanted attention.

Seconds later the two Frenchmen appeared around the corner, still conversing about their boss, the enigmatic Dubois. They were walking side by side, as Indy had hoped. Professionals wouldn't have done anything of the sort. These guys were obviously untrained, just amateurs hired to do the grunt work. The older one sounded a bit more experienced, but not enough. Which was good for Indy, because if they were experienced, he would've already been dead.

"_Bizarre..."_ said the elder man. "It looks like someone has already cut a path."

"Probably just another search group," the young one dismissed.

"_Oui. _You are probably right." They continued on, and stepped right into Indy's trap...

At exactly the right moment he pulled the vine taught. The improvised rope sprang up from the ground, and the two unlucky grave robbers stepped into it. The young one fell first, followed closely by his partner. Just as they hit the ground Indy stepped out from behind the tree, bullwhip in hand.

"_Merde!" _one of them yelled, reaching for his revolver. Indy cracked the whip. It wrapped around the man's wrist, and with a hard tug the feeble thing snapped like a twig. The man cried out in pain and hit the forest floor once again.

The younger one hesitated for moment, his face full of fear and bewilderment. He finally made up his mind and charged, but Indy had taken the exta time to snap a branch off of the tree he was next to, and now he swung it forcefully into the grave robber's head, making like Joe DiMaggio would with an easy fastball. The man crumpled, his desperation giving way to unconsciousness.

The man with the broken wrist groaned pathetically. Indy tromped over to him and knelt down. _"Bonjour. Comment-tappelle tu?"_

He groaned again. Taking hold of his wrist, Indy twisted it and put a hand over his mouth as the man screamed in pain. "Now, do you have something you want me to know?" the archaeologist asked again in fluent French, still grasping the man's wrist.

"What... what do you want to know?" His voice was haggard, and Indy knew he might pass out from the pain.

"Where's the camp?" he asked.

"In... in the ruins..."

"The ruins, huh? You mean the Temple of Tiki?" The Frenchman nodded. "How many others are there?"

Yet another groan, then, "I'm... not sure..." Indy put some more weight on the wrist. "_Non! Non, _wait... There are about twenty, maybe twenty-five..."

Indy smiled. _Torture really does work,_ he thought. "One more question. Ever seen a little gold Tiki statue, maybe around the site or something?"

He shook his head rather vigorously, using up the rest of his dwindling strength. _"Non, non... Je n'ai pas..."_

Indy could tell the man was giving him an honest answer. In that case, the grave robbers hadn't gotten to it yet. Or maybe some had, and they just hadn't come back out. From what he'd heard, getting into the grave of Chief Amana, said to be the last human descendent of the god Tiki, was no cakewalk. Hell, if it was, the artifact would've been stolen a _long _time ago.

X

A giant statue of Tiki, the Polynesians' main god, provided the centerpiece for the grave robbers' camp. Seemingly leaning greatly on one side while the other crumbled, the monument looked like the lovechild of the Leaning Tower of Pisa and Easter Island's _moai. _Indy chuckled dryly at the joke, one that only a professor such as himself could truly appreciate.

All around the Tiki statue were a large cluster of tents, accompanied by a few fire pits and stones that had been rolled in to act as seats. Sitting on these stones, and mulling around the camp, were the grave robbers, none of whom seemed to have any work ethic to speak of. They were playing cards, smoking, drinking, and generally doing the things that an unsuccessful band of criminals tend to do. A few were cleaning their rifles, though, and Indy was surprised at the quality of the guns. He suddenly hoped the Frenchmen were as bad shots as they were workers, but the incident on the seaplane made that seem very unlikely.

From his perch, Indy could see the doorway that led to Chief Amana's tomb, all the way at the other end of the camp. _Here goes nothing, _Indy thought, sliding down the rocky embankment and landing in a crouch on the weedy stone floor of the temple. His descent had been hidden, thankfully, by a group of pillars. These pillars lined the side of this area of the temple all the way around. If he could just stay behind these most of the way, he might make it.

Indy backed against the first pillar. At a glance it looked as though most of the murderous grave robbers had their eyes on something else, like their hand of cards, so he sprinted to the next pillar. And the next, and the next. So far so good, until one of the men near him muttered that he had seen something behind the pillars to one of his smoking buddies.

"Probably just a bat," another one said in a reassuring tone. The man who'd seen Indy nodded dismissively, and they continued smoking. _A bat? _Indy thought. _These guys really are idiots._ He sprinted out of the cover of the last pillar and through the doorway of the tomb, the door sliding shut behind him-

-and threw himself to the floor as two spears exploded out of the mouths of carefully made Polynesian headmasks, carved into the stone walls. He picked himself up and brushed off his brown leather jacket. There were a huge number of headmasks lining the passageway before him, but at the end of that, in a small room, was a pedestal. The body of Chief Amana was obviously beneath it. On the pedestal was the golden Tiki idol, shining in all its glory. The light came from a hole in the low ceiling, possibly made by a former grave robber. An easy escape, if it came to that.

He shook his head in amazement. Could it really be that easy? Granted, he had to get past the spear-spitting native gods first, but after that it seemed that he was home free.

Indy took a deep breath, cracked his knuckles, and ran forward.

The first spear he dodged easily, ducking under its path. But as he ducked another spear was loosed from the mouth of a mask, and he threw himself forward, the spear taking a piece out of his jacket... The next two came together, and he hurled himself onto the dusty floor... Only one part left! As spears whistled by, Indy barreled past the last two head masks... and the floor gave out underneath him.

He yelled out, shoving his hands forward, groping for a handhold and finding it. He swung inward and hit the wall, but the grip held. Heaving a deep sigh of relief, he looked down into the pit that he had so luckily avoided falling into.

"Mother of God!" Coiled in the bottom of the rather shallow pit was the largest snake he had ever seen, just now waking from what seemed to have been a _very _deep sleep. It hissed menacingly, and a paralyzed Indy couldn't help but notice its rows of fangs, the front two roughly the length and width of his forearm. The monstrous thing narrowed its yellow eyes. Then it lunged.

Indy, feeling so awake that the effects of hours of intercontinental flying left his body completely, tore the Webley from its holster and fired three shots into the beast that was inches away from his leg.

The snake recoiled, hissing. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed," he muttered, pulling himself out of the hole and dashing towards the artifact. Almost there.

The giant serpent slithered lithely out of the pit, coming towards him at an alarming rate. Indy completely disregarded any security measures that might have been taken when the idol was separated from the pedestal and wrenched it off. The moment that it was removed there was a hideous grinding noise, and two walls, full of spikes, began moving towards him on either side. Indy was trapped. walls of spikes on both sides, smooth stone in front, and an angry snake behind him, closing fast. He looked up and immediately realized that the "skylight" was too far above him. Unless...

The snake lunged again, and Indy hurled himself downwards; it rammed against the wall. The spikes were closing in... He jumped up, his foot resting for an instant on a spike, then another, then another, his head coming into the sunlight-

and fangs tore into his pant leg, the beast hanging on to him by the fabric. "Go back... to _sleep!_" Indy yelled, kicking the monster hard in the face. It let go for a moment. That was all the time he needed. He pulled himself out into the sun as the creature's head came through the opening. Just then the spikes collided, and blood spewed from the mouth of the eviscerated serpent.

Indy examined the once-menacing animal and shook his head. "I guess your people-eating days are over..." He pulled open the gas mask bag that was slung over his shoulder and extracted the idol. A wide smile spread over his face as he saw the motor boat docked below him. Expensive champagne, here we come...

_Present Day_

Indy's recollection was interrupted by the shrill ringing of his phone. Startled, he leaned forward in the chair and picked up the receiver. "Yeah?"

"No time for pleasantries, hm?" said a familiar voice.

Indy smiled, despite the incessant throbbing in his head. "Heya, Marcus."

"Hello, Indiana," replied Marcus Brody, and Indy couldn't help but hear the pain in his voice. "I... I'm afraid I must be the bearer of bad news, for you and I both. Er..."

The archaeologist narrowed his eyes. "What is it?" he coaxed, concern lacing his voice.

The curator sighed. "I've been fired, my friend. By the Museum Board. It... It happened last week. On Tuesday."

The throbbing increased tenfold. Running a hand through his hair, Indy tried to console his friend, but the anger in his voice was perfectly evident. "They _fired _you? What! That's..." Indy paused. "Why?" he finished lamely, annoyed at himself. Marcus needed comfort, not a sermon.

But the former curator seemed happy to receive support of any kind. "I'm not... sure. That's what's so confusing. I mean, they could at least have the dignity to tell me what I've done wrong."

"Don't let it get to you," Indy muttered, his lip curling. He had always disliked the Museum Board. Every seat on it was taken up by suit-wearing, gray-haired men, the kind who never went out into the field but nonetheless thought of themselves as veritable _experts _on archaeology. In fact, the only one on the Board who deserved to be there was Marcus. But now he was out, fired by his own goddamn colleagues... "That's just bullshit."

"Yes... But I must tell you something. The new curator, Edmund Black-"

But Indy wasn't listening. At the door of his small office stood the most breathtaking woman he had seen in over a year. Even Elsa Schneider couldn't compare, and plus, she had been a Nazi, one of the two things he hated most about the field of archaeology, the other being snakes. This dame put the blonde haired female Fascist to shame.

"Marcus?"

"Yes?" he replied.

"I'll have to call you back." Without waiting for a response, Indy hung up the phone and looked again at the beautiful girl in front of him. She was dressed in a thin trench coat which exposed her many curves. It stopped just above the knees, showing some of her thin skirt. On her feet she wore stilettos, which looked hideously uncomfortable but attractive nonetheless.

But it was her face that really got his attention. It was framed by midlength, fiery red hair, which parted to expose high cheekbones, a slightly upturned nose, full lips, pencil thin eyebrows above long, wet lashes... and those eyes. Those amazing green eyes, now staring intently at him as though peering into his very soul...

"Doctor Jones, I presume?" Her voice had a definite British lilt, and for some reason it made her all the more sexy.

He shook himself out of the trance. "That's me."

Striding confidently up to his desk, she reached out a hand. He stood hurriedly and shook it. "Vivian Monroe. I'm with the museum." The badge on her shirt could've told him that.

_Wasn't Marcus worried about the new staff at the museum?_ Slightly suspicious but refusing to show it, Indy nodded. "I guess you'll be wanting this-" he produced the Tiki idol- "for the exhibit. Sorry I kept you waiting."

She accepted the statue readily. "I was wondering if you might accompany me to the museum, Mr. Jones." She paused for a moment, then, motioning to the pile of papers on his desk, asked, "Are you busy?"

Indy followed her gaze. Christ. Mid-terms. "Those can wait."

She smiled dazzlingly. "Then let's be on our way. I have a car waiting."

Indy pulled his suit jacket from the back of his chair and shrugged it on. He had his reservations about visiting a National Archaeology Museum that was devoid of Marcus, but he was wondering what the new curator wanted him for so soon. And the fact that he would get to spend time with the alluring Vivian Monroe, well... That didn't hurt either.


	2. Warnings

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I tell you, nothing!

**Indiana Jones and the Spirits of Avalon**

Chapter 2: Warnings

It was a nice car, a Bentley, but Indiana found himself more attracted to his fellow passenger than to the streamlined leather craftsmanship of the vehicle. Vivian (_Professor, _Indy reminded himself) Monroe had decided to use the ten minute ride to the National Museum to bring him up to speed. From her briefcase she had removed several tattered documents, recently extracted from the field, and given them to the archaeologist to examine. On the excavation papers were several sketches. They appeared to be of a key, and if the archaeologist had done his finding justice it was intricately designed, a jewel of some kind embossed in the handle. It was far from the key he used to open the door to his apartment, obviously. A voice in Indy's head kept telling him that the key was of twelfth century English origin, if only for the elegance of the craftsmanship and the presence of the jewel. He glanced over at Professor Monroe and voiced his theory.

"I believe you're right, Dr. Jones," said the assistant curator, glancing at the sketches. "Our man in the field, Charles Canning, had relatively the same thoughts. However, we believe there's more to this than merely an interesting archaeological find."

Indy raised his eyebrows. "And you want to find what it goes to?" he asked. It made sense, but finding the hole for the key would be a difficult task. Was the good Professor saying what he thought she was saying?

"Mr. Black asked me to bring you to the museum to discuss a proposition," she stated, answering his unasked question. "We would like you to travel to London, Dr. Jones. You will meet Canning there and begin to follow the trail of this key back to its source." She gave a quick smile, as if it was the smallest of assignments. The smile alone made him want to accept.

Instead he nodded, handing the papers back to Professor Monroe. "Sounds like a tough job."

The beautiful Professor smiled again, this time with more zeal. "For a man with your experience, Dr. Jones, tough should be a walk in the park." The abrupt halt of the Bentley saved him from responding. "We've arrived." The chauffeur opened her door, and she stepped out. Indy followed suit, eyeing for a moment the grand architecture of the National Museum. It was a great building, but an imposing one, made all the more so by Marcus' absence. Was accepting this assignment truly a good idea? Brody's unfinished sentence was weighing on his mind. _"The new curator, Edmund Black-"_

"Come with me," said his female escort, pulling Indy out of his thoughts. He walked to the other side of the vehicle as she started up the stone steps. He had to jog to catch up, the Professor strolling with purposeful speed. The woman truly was intriguing, but his mind was switching gears to the new curator, Edmund Black. He couldn't wait to meet him. Maybe that was because he wanted to give him a right hook across his jaw for stealing his friend's job, or maybe it was because he needed another escape from teaching. Even if his body _was _still aching from that Marquesas Islands incident...

Professor Monroe pushed open the large double doors and stepped into the warmly lit reception area. Visiting hours were still in full swing. Tourist families, large school groups, and archaeology buffs walked eagerly into the building, and Indy felt a small surge of pride. These people might happen upon one of his exhibits, glance for a moment at a piece of history he had devoted a part of his life to uncovering... It felt good to know that his work didn't go unnoticed. It really did. Which was more than he could say for his toils in Archaeology 101. Take notes, cram, take test, forget; that was the college kid's ideology. His teaching went in one ear and out the other. At least it had steady pay, though. That was something field work could never provide him.

He followed his escort past the crowds and through a side door. He knew this section of the museum well. The archives. A second home, when it was occupied by friends. He trailed the Professor into a large office, thoughts still buzzing in his head.

"He shall _not _bind his soul with clay. Alfred T. Tennyson said that. I agree. One must break free of the mold, or suffer greatly from letting it wallow inside of him. Indiana Jones, I presume?"

_Talkative son of a bitch, _Indy thought, sitting down opposite the man he assumed was Edmund Black. They were in a library-like study, which, up until a week ago, had been Marcus'. Bookshelves lined the wall, and in a hearth on the right wall a fire crackled, though it couldn't have been less than fifty outside.

Indy eyed Black, trying to disguise his immediate disgust. The new curator was thoroughly pathetic in his appearance. A flattened nose, a greasy goatee, and a pair of beady gray eyes seemed to have been plastered on his pallid face, and his suit was ill-fitting and rumpled. He sat with a strange conceit, however, which just made him all the more annoying. "At your service," Indy finally responded.

"I trust Vivian has told you my proposition," Black stated, motioning unnecessarily to his colleague. She was seated in an armchair a short ways away, arms crossed in front of her. Black shared her English accent, but that was where the similarities ended. Black seemed to be a narcissistic intellectual, whereas Vivian Monroe was cool, in control, and... Well, maybe it was just because she was a gorgeous woman. But one with a personality to match.

"Yeah, the Professor filled me in. But I have one question."

"Please. Ask away." Black poured himself a shot of cognac, not offering any to Indy.

The archaeologist's eyes narrowed. "First, why is this key so goddamn important? I don't want to devote any of my time if all I'm doing is satisfying your curiosity." He knew it sounded disagreeable, but that was how he felt.

"You must admit, Dr. Jones, it is an interesting find. I merely want to uncover its source. And with a key such as this, the source may be very interesting indeed."

Indy nodded, but he was unsatisfied with the answer Black had provided. The National Museum wasn't known to fund any major expeditions without proper explanation. And the newly appointed curator seemed to be lacking in that department. Interesting? Sure, but not to the Board. They needed concrete fact, not private interest. He decided to leave it. It wasn't worth pursuing. Instead he leaned back in his chair and sighed. What was eating at him? This was a job, and nothing more.

Black seemed to sense Indy's discomfort. "Well," he said slowly, "There is one thing."

One thing. One goddamn thing. There always was... "What is it?" he asked, shifting in his seat.

The curator took a sip of his cognac. "Something was found in the museum. A tapestry, of sorts."

_What the hell! _Thoughts raced through Indy's mind like wildfire. He took a breath, and leaned forward in the chair. "When were you planning to tell me this, exactly?"

Black wrung his hands together. "Dr. Jones, you must excuse me. This tapestry..." He paused.

"Yes?"

"It seemed as though a man as routed in fact as yourself would not be inclined to believe in such myths."

Myths? This just kept getting better. Indy tried to keep his tone neutral, though he was becoming increasingly agitated. "What myths are we talking about, Mr. Black?"

"Are you familiar with the legend of Excalibur?"

The question hung there, unmoving, impenetrable. Indy's head hammered like never before. Excalibur? Was Black implying that the key opened something that held the sword of King Arthur? He snorted. "Pelllinor, the broken sword, the Lady in the Lake, Morgan le Fay... if you're telling me you found a reference to that nonsense, I'm sure as hell not sticking around."

Black seemed unphased. He brought out a sheaf of parchment paper, one with inky fingerprints on the edges. These were evidence of field work. Indy took the parchment from Black, eying its contents. A copy, obviously, one done no doubt by Dieter Jansen, but it was a skilled facsimile. A sketch of a broadsword, most likely Excalibur, was in the center of the parchment. Above and below, ancient Welsh script was written in the form of prose. Indy donned his reading glasses and began to translate, though Welsh was one old language that he had some trouble with.

"'Tip sharp and hilt of... gold,' that's it," he began, "'born in isle of undying beauty'... Obviously Excalibur. And Avalon, right... 'Flesh of man its favorite meal.' Okay, next stanza; 'but true power unheeded'... 'taken by treacherous daughter--'"

"Treacherous sister, actually," Black stated pompously. Indy looked up.

"Right. 'Taken by treacherous sister'... That'd be Morgan le Fay... 'And lost forever beneath field of blue.'" He paused and took a breath. "The scabbard of Excalibur. Arthur didn't keep the scabbard close enough, despite Merlin telling him it held infinitely more power than the sword, and his sister stole it and threw it in the lake-"

"Yes, of course. I think we all know of the myth. But that it of no importance." Something in Black's voice made Indy think otherwise, but he remained quiet. "What is of _great _importance is the intrinsic value of the sword and its scabbard! So you see, Dr. Jones, you must accept my proposition. You must, for the betterment of the world!"

No, he told himself. Say no. For with Marcus' unfinished sentence lingering in his subconsious, and his impression of Black anything but good, there was absolutely no way in hell that he would accept this assignment. Not a chance-

"I can't see why not," said the archaeologist, silencing his thoughts.

A grotesque smile spread across Black's face. "Splendid," he responded. "Absolutely splendid. I have your tickets right here-" He removed a manilla folder from his desk drawer- "Along with some background information that you may need."

The folder slid across the table. Indy flipped it open and quickly looked up. "What's the second ticket for?" he asked, uncomfortable.

Black glanced at Professor Monroe. The look on his stretched face was that of confusion. "You didn't mention..."

"It escaped me," she answered, tight-lipped.

Her superior turned back to Indy. "Professor Monroe will be traveling with you, Dr. Jones. I wouldn't feel this necessary, but you must understand that this is our first time working together. I decided that it might be best if you were accompanied by a trusted colleague." A pause. "Of course you understand my motives are nothing but professional..."

Indy decided the best way to convey his repugnance was through silence. The fact that Black had felt he needed a babysitter was beyond comprehension, and the archaeologist again questioned his employer's motives. If he knew him by reputation, he should have known that Indy didn't have a record of making off with artifacts meant for the museum.

Black coughed nervously. "Yes, well... Your plane leaves tomorrow, Dr. Jones, at precisely 10:30. I trust you'll arrive on time." The cognac swished in the shot glass as he finished it off. "If that will be all..."

"Yes," Indy muttered, rising from his chair. "It will." He rose from the chair and walked out. It was high time he called Marcus. If he walked into this assignment blind, there was no telling what could happen.

X

It took less than two rings for Marcus to pick up, and Indy couldn't help but hear the nervousness in his voice. "He-hello?"

"You don't sound so good, Marcus." True, the ex-curator had no real reason to sound good, but there was something in his voice that Indy didn't like.

"Yes, well... With the museum, and all, I'm a little... out of sorts. And the war effort... well, er, it's seeming _very _close to home at the moment... I- I'm sure you understand, Indiana. You of _all _people..."

What was his old friend trying to say? His brow furrowed, for the answer was not forthcoming. He should understand. He could understand. But the pounding in his head was proving much too hard to accommodate any cryptic messages. "Er... Marcus? I'm at a loss."

Marcus sighed with discontent. "I can tell."

"I called because I... I took a job from Edmund Black. I thought you might fill me in-"

"You _what?_" Marcus gasped. "_You_- er, well, yes... I- I'm glad, Indy, I am. No doubt you'll find the work immensely... _exciting._"

And that was that. Indy couldn't help but feel that the former curator was speaking cryptically. "Marcus?"

"Hm?"

"I, er... Are you sure you're all right?"

A hacking cough came through the receiver. "Yes, of course. I'm... fine..."

"I'll see you when I get back from London."

"Yes, Indy... I'll hope to see you then." The line went dead. Indy hung up the telephone, struggling to understand the message. What had he meant? And why was the shady Edmund Black suddenly Marcus' favorite curator?

He mulled over the questions in his mind, his attempts to answer them fruitless and disheartening. He truly was walking into this job blind. And even Marcus couldn't do anything to help him…


	3. Dits and Dahs

Disclaimer: LucasArts owns Indy, Rob MacGregor owns Jack Shannon, and I own a pretty nice computer and an urge to write about everyone's favorite archaeology professor.

**Indiana Jones and the Spirits of Avalon**

**By Clansman Sam (formerly Carabiner Boy)**

Chapter 3: Dits and Dahs

The crowd at the dock was huge, clamorous, but it took only a moment for Indy to spot Vivian Monroe. She was still undeniably beautiful, but Indy sensed a change in her overall demeanor. No longer coolly confident, she looked troubled, even distraught, and the smile he was greeted with as she found her way to him was quick and forced. He almost asked about it, but he quickly decided that any more information would only be a hindrance. He was still running over his conversation with Marcus in his mind, and that was puzzling enough. Puzzling and disturbing, for it seemed that Edmund Black wasn't only a pompous bastard, but a danger to boot...

The curator arrived as if on cue, exiting his signature Bentley with a man who looked decidedly unlike a worker in the field of antiquities. And why, Indy asked himself, would an artifact aficionado require a bodyguard? It was even more obvious to him now that this was a job he shouldn't have taken, but backing out at this time wasn't an option. He would lose work with the museum, and, as much as he refused to admit it, there was a part of him that knew there was magic in the mythical scabbard. It was the same part that had made him close his eyes when the Ark had been opened, the same part that had let him give his father a sip from the Grail. He wanted to find that artifact, even if it did mean risking his life.

Boarding had commenced. Indy pulled his eyes away from the curator and glanced at the steamer. It was a giant ship, twenty stories of white and green, with "HATHEWAY STEAMER LINES" painted on the side. The crowd, mostly made up of aristocratic Americans off for a weekend foray in London, was filing up the ramp, luggage in hand. Indy had just gotten his bags when Black strode up to him.

"Doctor Jones!" he bellowed, looking considerably more jovial than his colleague. He smiled horribly, extending a hand. Indy gave it a quick, rough shake, disgusted at the layer of sweat on the man's palm. "Ah, how exciting!" the curator said. "A new project, a new piece of history for us to uncover." _For me, you mean, _Indy thought to himself as Black continued: "This is truly exciting." He strolled through the mass of people like a king, surveying all of his domain. Seconds later, though, the whistle blew and smoke poured from the smokestack, causing the curator to jump in fright. One thing was for sure. When it came down to it, Edmund Black was nothing more than an insect.

Indy adjusted his fedora and made for the gangplank, Professor Monroe close behind. Black, quickly regaining himself, walked in step with Indy as he and Vivian boarded the steamer. "Have a wonderful time, Dr. Jones. And come back with my artifact!" A clipped laugh, and the pathetic man turned back to his Bentley.

The situation on the boat was somewhat chaotic. Between the yells of confused passengers and those of the crew, it was almost impossible to tell where to go. Professor Monroe seemed to know what she was doing, however. She touched his shoulder and said, "I am going to my room, Dr. Jones. I will see you tonight." She went down an adjacent staircase, and Indy couldn't help but feel an adolescent twinge in his groin as he glanced at her. Though something about her demeanor wasn't quite right, he couldn't help but be attracted to the woman, in both a physical and intellectual sense.

But that was out of the question. She was a museum worker, and nothing more. Besides, too many failed romances in a short amount of time weren't healthy. Willie, Elsa- though Indy reminded himself that she had only been using him to meet her own ends- and Marion. Marion... She had come and gone, leaving him with only a quick note and a sadness that would never be fully extinguished. Back to her bar in Nepal, and even though he sometimes thought of reconciliation, he knew it would never happen. So no, Edmund Black could have Professor Monroe. He glanced at his ticket: Section C, Cabin 5. Indy sighed and started down another staircase.

X

Two hours later, the moon was out and the steamer was at sea, slicing through the water like the awe-inspiring giant that it was. Rain pelted against the deserted deck; most of the passengers were in Le Café de Soleil, the ship's restaurant and ballroom, located one floor below Indy's cabin. Presently, the archaeologist was shaving, the blade of the razor grating over his brittle whiskers. He never used shaving cream. Too many years of fieldwork, where vanities like that were unneeded. He didn't plan to go out in his leather jacket and fedora, however, though that would have been preferable over the white tuxedo that he had found in his dresser.

Indy set the razor down and tied his bowtie. It was something he'd never been proficient at, and probably never would be. But he finally got the damn thing, and after shrugging on the white tux jacket, he was prepared to meet Vivian at the restaurant. But something stopped him. A noise in the next cabin over. It consisted of a grouping of "dits" and "dahs," and Indy knew immediately what he was listening to: a Morse code transmission. The lack of radio static told him that it was being transmitted _from_ the cabin to another source. But what did it mean? Morse code was one language he didn't understand. That didn't mean he couldn't translate it later, though. So he swept a pad of paper from his coat pocket, grabbed a pen, and began to record the transmission. He caught it just after a ".-.-.-," which was a full stop, one of the few things he understood. Then on to the next sentence. "…. . .. … …. . .-. ." This was followed by another full stop, and a click. End of radio transmission. He analyzed it fruitlessly for a moment, shoved it into his pocket, and ducked into the night.

The sky had opened up now. Rain came down in sheets, and he pulled the tuxedo up over his head as water sloshed over the side. The sea was angry, but not as angry as it had been during the recovery of the Cross of Coronado, in a steamship off the Portuguese coast. That'd been a challenge. But at least the man he knew only as Panama Hat was dead now, courtesy of a few fuel drums and a lot of pent-up anger. That jackass had been a lot like Belloq, in a way. Driven to the point of insanity when it came to antiquities. Or the money that they could get for them. Either way, both of those men were no longer around. He only hoped that he wouldn't find anyone new to hate during the search for the scabbard.

He found the staircase and went down another floor. This was Section D, the floor that held the gaming areas, the bar, and, most popular, La Café de Soleil. He nodded at the doorman and stepped inside.

It was a nice place, that was for sure. A lot nicer than his apartment back in Manhattan, but then that wasn't saying much. Indy made his way onto a landing and was just about to go down the sweeping staircase when Professor Monroe's voice came from behind him. "Indiana!" she said, calling him by his first name. She still looked rather distressed, but that didn't hide her beauty. She wore a blue sequined gown that had a split up to the thigh, and her red hair flowed loosely over her shoulders. He grinned despite himself as she looked him over. "You look handsome, Dr. Jones. How do you manage it at your age?"

He smirked. "I've found that not caring helps." He held out an arm. "Shall we?"

"Of course." She slid her arm into his, and they descended the staircase like true royalty. As they reached the dining area, a waiter with a genuine French accent led them to a small table. Most were taken, and the fast jazz being played on a nearby stage only added to the buzz. "May I get you something, _Monsieur_? _Madame_?"

"I'll take a bourbon," Indy said. He felt like a stiff drink. _"Et une rose pour la dame, s'il vous plaît." _

"A glass of champagne for me," said Vivian. _"Merci." _She looked across at him and smiled. "You're not the only one who speaks French, Indy."

He laughed. "Damn. I thought I had the element of surprise going for me, too."

But just then he felt something hard and blunt press into his back. Adrenaline coursed through him. "Put your hands behind your head, _Herr _Jones," said a familiar voice. "Adolph would like a word with you."

Indy spun around, smiling. A gangly figure stood behind him, a huge grin on his face. "Heya, Indy," said Jack Shannon. "Long time, no see."

"What the hell are you doing here, Jack?" Indy asked him jovially. He and Shannon had been best friends back in college, less study buddies than drinking buddies. Shannon had always played a mean cornet; Indy had many fond memories of watching him juice the instrument for all it was worth in one of the many barrelhouse piano saloons around Chicago's South Side. The last time he had seen him had been during his studies at Paris's Sorbonne, and it was a wonderful surprise to see him again.

"Ah, I'm just here for a few cruises. The pay's damn good, but steamship musicians don't get that many girls. I figure I'll head back to Chicago, maybe start up a band there." He smiled again and looked, for the first time, at Vivian. His eyebrows turned up in surprise, and he held out a hand. "The name's Shannon. Jack Shannon. Pleasure."

"Vivian Monroe," she answered, returning the handshake. Shannon sat down, eyeing Indy with a mock jealous glare.

The waiter returned with a platter of drinks. "Bourbon-" he placed the tumbler in front of Indy- "champagne-" he handed the thin glass to Vivian- "And, also for the lady…" He reached behind his back and extracted a single rose. The assistant curator feigned surprise; she had understood Indy's request, but the sentiment was still there.

Shannon laughed. "C'mon, Jones, no rose for me?" He punched Indy on the shoulder, but just then another recognizable face came into view. Indy's heart jumped into his throat. Was it him? The Portugal trip was somewhat of a blur, but if he wasn't mistaken, that same man had almost made good on Panama Hat's order to kill him. He was a mere thug, but the sight of the roughneck made him sweat regardless.

Shannon noticed him looking at the man, who was flanked by several others. "Yeah, that guy's a shady character. Came in on the same port as you, I think. He's an odd one."

"Do you know what cabin he's in?" Indy asked, increasingly suspicious. After all, with dead people walking, there was no telling what else might be amiss.

"Let's see. Ah, Section C, Cabin… six, I think. I had to bring his bags, the son of a bitch…Why?"

Jesus. That was the cabin neighboring his. "No reason."

"Bullshit." If anyone knew when Indy wasn't being honest, it was Jack Shannon.

Indy looked over at Vivian, who was silently sipping her champagne. "I'm pretty damn sure I already killed that man," he muttered.

Professor Monroe put her hand onto Indy's. "You must be mistaken," she said, but something in her voice told him she wasn't convinced.

Shannon raised an eyebrow. "Archaeology, huh?" The two had kept in touch, but up until now Indy's extracurricular activities had been downplayed in his letters.

"Yeah, well, the world of antiquities is more dangerous than you'd realize." _Talk about an understatement, _he thought to himself.

"Can't be more dangerous than the world of jazz," Shannon laughed, getting up from his chair. "Well, time to get back. Gimme your address, huh? We've got to catch up." He nodded at Vivian, and departed.

Indy looked at Vivian. "I've got a bad headache," he said. "I think I'll turn in for the night."

She nodded. "If you need anything, Indy…"

"Right." He stood and pushed his chair in. It was strange; Vivian seemed to be trying to convey that she herself was okay, while also trying to comfort him. But he could tell that she wasn't. He glanced back at her as he made his way to the stairs. She was getting up, too, and suddenly he wanted to be with her. But he'd already told himself it was a bad idea, and anyway, he had other things to do. And those didn't include falling asleep.

Indy ruffled through his pocket until he found the paper on which he had written the Morse code transmission. It had come through the left wall, so, if Shannon had been correct, it had come from the room occupied by Panama Hat's thug. Could they be tracking him? Possibly, but the Panama Hat that he knew wouldn't go through all that trouble just to take care of a vendetta.

Unlocking and opening his door, Indy began to take off his tuxedo. No sense trying to look spiffy for criminals. He placed the white suit coat on the bed and took his brown leather jacket out of the duffel. Then came his fedora, which he pulled down over his forehead. He walked to the porthole. It looked barely large enough, God willing. He rolled it open and poked his head outside. Raindrops poured off the brim of his hat.

There it was. Light filtered through the half open porthole, occasionally disturbed by a shadow crossing its path. "Damn," Indy whispered. Cabin 6 was decidedly not empty. But he couldn't turn back now. So, holding on to the edge of his own porthole, Indy lowered himself down so that he was hanging from the window. Now came the tricky part. He took a breath in, silently counted to three, and swung, one hand coming free and groping for the edge of the other porthole. But he missed ever so slightly, and swung back like a pendulum, banging into the hull. Muttering obscenities, he swung again. This time his fingers found the edge. He let go of his own porthole and grasped both hands on Cabin 6's.

Steps echoed in the interior of the cabin. Indy had been relatively quiet, so he figured that for now, he still had surprise on his side. But the rain was beating down harder now. He wouldn't be able to hold on for long. And somehow he doubted that he'd have much chance of surviving stormy seas, especially tonight.

Indy pulled up so that he could see the inside of the cabin. His arms trembled with exertion, but it was worth it; he looked in just as the cabin's lone occupant turned his back. He was a brawny giant, from the looks of it, and not unlike the ones he'd seen flanking Panama Hat's underling in the café. But he also had a gun. He doubted the man had the smarts to know that using it would be stupid in these kinds of quarters, so he'd have to take his chances. Indy pushed upwards until his arms locked and vaulted through the porthole.

The thump that he made as he hit the floor caused his erstwhile roommate to spin around, gun already drawn. "Bad idea," Indy declared, launching himself forward. He smashed into the man's legs and wrapped his arms around them. The man flew backwards with the archaeologist in tow, ramming into a cabinet, and Indy struggled up before his assailant could. He caught him with a right hook to the temple, and the giant slumped over. Indy took his gun for safekeeping.

Wiping a fleck of blood from the corner of his mouth, he glanced around the room. It looked almost identical to his, but the desk was far more cluttered. He walked over to it and began sifting through the papers. The first one he found was a Morse code translation paper. It confirmed his suspicions that this had been the cabin from which it had originated. He stuffed it into the pocket of his slacks. Next came a group of ticket stubs from the ship, a request form… Indy glanced at the items listed. Three Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine guns, five Browning P35 9mms, and one Springfield 1903A4 sniper rifle. No surprise there; Panama Hat had always liked using force. But who were they planning to empty their rounds on? Could it have something to do with the Morse code transmission he had overheard? Possibly. He continued looking.

Dinner menu, reserved room numbers for the Eliot Hotel, and… "Christ," Indy said aloud, holding the paper he had just uncovered up to the light. "Jesus Christ." It was the same sketch of the tapestry that Edmund Black had shown him, or a minimized copy of it. There was Excalibur, shining in the center. And above the Welsh script there was a message scrawled in near-illegible hand: _Recover the scabbard. _No…

Suddenly a pistol butt came at him from his left. Indy felt a searing pain on his forehead, and he was falling, falling… "Night night, Dr. Jones," murmured a faraway voice as he slipped into unconsciousness.


	4. Bookwork

Author's Note: Alright, thanks for the hint on the section breaks. Muchos gracias. Um, yeah, here it is. Disclaimer: Je n'own Indy pas. Damn, I've been taking French for two years, and I still really suck at it. Indiana Jones and the Spirits of Avalon 

**By Clansman Sam**

Chapter 4: Bookwork 

"Indy? …Indiana?"

Her voice came from somewhere close, and as he blinked open his eyes he saw her, hovering over him. Rays of sun filtered in through a porthole, lighting up her crimson locks. Indy grinned. "Hi," he said, somewhat dazed.

Vivian smiled, placing a fresh bandage over forehead. "You were out for a while," she said. "I was worried." The warmth of the rag felt good. Indy let out a sigh and sunk into the pillow.

"Where'd you find me?" The last thing he remembered was being bashed in the head by one of Panama Hat's cronies. Now that he thought about it, he was shocked that he wasn't dead.

"In your room," she said, smoothing out the sheets. "I came to see you, and your door was open, so I went in… You were on the floor, Indy. Your head was bleeding."

"Probably looked worse than it was. I feel fine-" he paused as a sharp pain needled through his forehead.

"You woke up after I shook you a few times," she continued, disregarding his forced machismo. "But after I got you on the bed, you were out for a while."

"Thanks for helping," he grunted. His forehead hurt like hell where the pistol butt had connected. It felt like the flow of blood had slowed down from when Vivian had found him, but it was still coming out. The bandage that she had just applied was already considerably reddened. He brought a hand up to it, flinching at the touch. So much for his stalwart Jones hardiness…

"Here," Vivian offered. "Have some water."

She held it out for him, but he shook his head. "I'm all right." Which he wasn't, but some ounce of toughness had to be maintained.

She looked at him, and her full lips curved up into a smile. "You know, Dr. Jones, you might just be the most stubborn man I've ever met."

"I wouldn't be surprised," he answered, still somewhat groggy. "How long until we dock in Dover?" They would be driven to their hotel from there, which was in the center of London.

She checked the wall clock. "About an hour and a half, I'd say." She had apparently brought her luggage to his room, having already dressed in a functional white blouse and khaki woman's trousers. He noticed for the first time that she wore a thin gold necklace around her neck. A pendant was hanging from it, and on closer inspection he could tell that it was of ancient Mayan design.

Vivian noticed him looking at it. "Oh!" She laughed self-consciously, her hand going to the pendant. "It was a gift from my father. He was an archaeologist, actually."

Indy nodded. "Perry Monroe?" he asked.

She looked surprised. "Yes, actually. Do you know of him?"

"Sure," he responded, sitting up in the bed. "He made a number of interesting discoveries in the Yucatan Peninsula region, right? Mayan grave sites, and the like."

She nodded, smiling. "It's funny you should say that, because my father… He never thought he got the recognition he deserved." She laughed again, and he couldn't help but be affected by her good humor.

"Yeah, my dad's the same way. And the thing is, he's done so much, and he still thinks it's not enough. You know?"

She nodded. "Henry Jones? Yes, he certainly has done a great deal of good for the world of archaeology."

He got up, doing his best to ignore the burning sensation in his head. "He's also done a great deal of good giving me migraines," he muttered. "I should clean up."

"Of course." She stood hurriedly. "I'll go, then…"

Indy waved it off. "No, you can stay. You're bags are all here, anyway." He walked into the bathroom.

But after starting the shower, he sifted through his pockets and found the Morse code translation paper. Good. They hadn't bothered to see what was missing from the desk. He flattened it out and placed it on the edge of the sink, then pulled out his recording of the transmission. The first two letters were "…."and ".", which together spelled out HE. Indy jotted it down, then went to the next group: "..", "…", and "….". This translated to ISH, so he added that. The last three letters were ".", ".-.", and another ".", the English of which was ERE. Together the letters spelled out "HEISHERE". He is here. Indy felt a surge of anxiety. It could've been referring to anyone, but he had a sinking feeling that his neighbors in Cabin 6 had something against him.

He stuffed the papers back into his pocket and began to undress. Just then there was a knock on the bathroom door. Waving steam out of his face, he opened it a fraction. Vivian stood there, smiling tentatively. "May I come in?" she asked.

He had told himself not to do this. It was a mistake, pure and simple, and there was nothing he wanted less at the moment than to screw up. He should tell her no, close the door, wash the pain out of his limbs and depart for London without having to carry around the additional baggage of a relationship…

"Sure," Indy said. He opened the door fully. She walked in, smiling shyly. "I would have assumed you would be in the shower by know, Indy," she said quietly.

"Well, I like to wait until it's hot enough," he lied, moving closer, his hand brushing her face.

She smiled again, and her arms wrapped around him. "I believe, Indiana, that it is plenty hot now." Her lips closed onto his.

X

Despite the pain caused by his encounter with Panama Hat's men, the headache that had been plaguing him for months now had all but disappeared. He felt elated, and as he made his way down the gangplank he wrapped his arm around Vivian's waist, kissing her on the forehead. Her eyes glistened as she looked at him. And, despite the somewhat conflicting feelings he'd been receiving from her, he could tell that he was in no way being played; she was serious in her affection. "How does it feel to be home?" he asked her as they stepped onto the Dover port.

"Wonderful," she answered. From the moment the steamer had docked, her English lilt had become much more pronounced. Indy found himself hopelessly attracted to her very voice. _God, _he thought, _what have I been missing?_

As they wound their way through the debarking passengers, Jack Shannon's voice rang out from behind them. "Hey, Jones! Jones! Don't walk away from me, ya bastard!" Several conservatively dressed passengers glanced nervously at them, eyes narrowed at Shannon's language.

Indy turned around, grinding his teeth together in mock anger. "I thought I had a restraining order against you, Shannon! Or have you forgotten why I have this bandage on my head?" He tried to suppress a grin, fully aware that they were causing a scene.

Jack stopped a few yards from Indy. "Yeah, I remember," he muttered. "My aim was off! This time you'll need a casket!" He shoved his hand into the folds of his coat- the surrounding people gasped and screamed- and came out with a fountain pen. "I told you to gimme your address, bub." The two broke into gales of laughter as the frightened passengers dispersed, giving them a wide berth.

When they had recovered, Indy pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and scribbled his room number and the hotel name on it, then handed it back to Shannon, who was eying his bandaged head. "How'd you really get that one, Indy?"

I had a chat with those guys in cabin six. It ended… badly."

"The dangerous world of antiquities, right…" Jack smirked and looked at the paper. "This is the hotel?"

"Yep. Give me a call sometime, Jack. Are you staying in London?"

Shannon nodded. "Yeah, the ship's docked for about a week, so I'll be around. We can go out drinking- it'll be just like old times." He grinned roguishly and looked at Vivian. "Hey, if you ever feel like ditching this chump, I'm always available." He winked at them and walked away, his only luggage a rucksack and his cornet case.

They continued on, Vivian leading the way. As they broke through the crowd, he heard his name called out again. "Dr. Jones!" Indy looked to his left and saw a solidly built man of average height who looked to be in his early forties. He was dressed in a gray wool coat, and his trousers were grimy with dirt. His blond hair was showing streaks of gray, but he made no attempt to conceal them. He didn't really seem worried about personal appearance in the least, a lot like Indy himself.

The man smirked as he looked at them, Indy with his arm again around the professor. "Vivian," he muttered. "I see you and Jones have become acquainted."

"Hello, Charles," Vivian said icily. Indy looked from her to Canning. It seemed that the two had a history, but he could only speculate as to what it might be.

The Englishman snickered by way of a response. "Well, now that we've made introductions, the car is this way." He fished out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, popped one out, and put it into his mouth. Then, after lighting up, he turned and walked in the direction he had come from.

Indy glanced at Vivian, but said nothing. The initial uneasiness he had seen a day before was back, along with something else; anger. Whatever she had had with Canning before, it was now over.

They followed Canning down the street, weaving between the debarking passengers, catching quick glimpses of the dust-coated bowler hat as it bobbed through the masses. Canning finally stopped at a battered Ford V-8, its green siding all but peeled away completely. "My company car," he said with a smirk. "Get in."

Indy held the back door for Vivian and sat down in the front passenger's seat. The Ford coughed to life. Canning pulled out into the street, silent save for his incessant humming. Indy drummed his fingers on the dashboard, somewhat distraught.

The car moved onto a long bridge. The River Thames rumbled beneath them, and the Tower of London loomed over it. The sky was dark and gray, and rumbled with thunder, and the ancient prison looked all the more foreboding through the billowing clouds. The endless grandeur of London spanned out before them, illuminated by frequent lightning bolts shooting down from the heavens. The storm that they had experienced yesterday on the steamer had followed them to London. Indy couldn't help but take it as an omen, despite thinking omens were a crock.

The Ford came to an abrupt halt, pulling Indy out of his thoughts. "The Dorchester," Canning said with a flourish of his hand. "Beautiful hotel, but only pricks stay at it." He smiled toothily. Indy contemplated telling him that if he said anything else he wouldn't have teeth to smile with, but instead he shoved open his door and stepped onto the pavement. Vivian started to exit the car next, but Canning motioned her to wait, and said something to her that Indy couldn't make out. She then opened her door and got out, looking angry.

"I'll get the-" he started, as Vivian brushed past him into the hotel lobby- "bags…" He popped the trunk and yanked their luggage out. Thankfully, a bellboy jogged over to him as he was attempting to heft all of the five bags at once.

"Can I be of assistance, sir?" he asked with a posh British accent.

"Yes," Indy nodded, leaning against the back of the bumper. "Thanks…" The Ford roared to life and sped away. Indy fell forward onto the curb.

"Are you okay, sir?" the bellhop asked quickly, running to Indy and pulling him up.

"I'm fine," he answered, brushing off his leather jacket. _But Charles Canning won't be…_

X

"Taxi!" Indy waved his hand and stepped into the street as the yellow, checkerboard-style taxicab screeched to a stop in front of him. He opened the back door and hopped in, careful to avoid the puddle below the curb. It was raining again, and the sour weather matched his mood. He was being pushed around by Charles Canning, bashed over the head by Panama Hat's men, and ignored by the woman whom, up until a little while ago, he had thought he had something with. But when he'd said he was going to explore the city, he hadn't needed the elaborate excuse as to why she couldn't accompany him; Vivian had simply said, "Mhm…" and gone back to her reading.

"Where to?" said the gruff driver, glancing back at Indy and causing acrid cigar smoke to waft through the back seat.

"Saint James Square," Indy answered idly. The man nodded and gunned the cab forward. They reached the square quickly, speeding down Regent, hanging a right, and into the all but deserted square. He fished out the allotted number of pounds and tipped the driver, then began to jog across the cobblestones. The London Library was just ahead, looking exactly as it had when it had been founded in 1841. He stopped at the door.

"Nothing like a little bookwork to cheer a person up," Indy muttered darkly, stepping into the cavernous front room. An elderly librarian sat at the Help desk. She didn't exactly look helpful, though. But Indy had been here before. He knew his way around, so, thankfully, he didn't have to disturb her. So, making sure she was still engrossed in the novel she was reading, he began to make his way up the twisting spiral staircase, stopping at the second doorway that he came to. The handwritten sign beside the door read "Third Floor: Years 1000 to 1500".

That wasn't exactly promising, but it was a start. Indy walked forward, looking over the room. It was small, but cramped with shelves, all of which were full to the point of bursting with countless dusty tomes. The bookshelves were all marked with different year markings: "1000 to 1049", "1050 to 1099," and so on. Indy stopped at "1200 to 1249." It was as good a place to start as any. He began searching for titles of any relevance. There were many interesting texts, even what looked to be an early scripting of a Shakespeare sonnet, but he passed them up. Soon, though, pertinent manuscripts started appearing: _Merlin_,a fragmented transcript by Robert de Boron, circa 1200. _Vulgate Merlin_ and _Suite de Merlin_, both part of the Vulgate and Post-Vulgate Cycles, circa 1245… and finally, Sir Thomas Malory's _Le Mote d'Arthur_, a work that should've been in the 1400's section, but by luck, it appeared to have been placed in the wrong place.

Indy carried the large books to a table, and dropped them onto it with a thud. After clicking on a dim table lamp, he sat down and began to read.

There was much more to the story than he had originally realized, but the underlying story was still there. Arthur had broken his original sword, the one he had pulled from the stone, during a swordfight against a night named Pellinor. Pellinor, who had been hunting the Questing Beast for a year, would've killed Arthur, had Merlin not put him to sleep with a spell.

Merlin had then directed Arthur to a lake in the heart of Avalon. There they met the Lady of the Lake, and also saw a hand jutting out of the center of the lake which held a sword. The Lady of the Lake told Arthur that the sword belonged to her, and that it was named Excalibur. She told Arthur he could have it, as long as he gave her a gift or boon in return. Arthur complied, so he and Merlin took a boat to the sword and took it from the hand, which immediately disappeared back into the water.

Merlin asked Arthur which he liked better, the sword or the scabbard. Arthur told the sorcerer that he liked Excalibur, but Merlin said that he should still guard the scabbard closest, for if he lost it he would never find it again.

The scabbard proved to be just as valuable as Merlin had said, but an awful turn of events changed everything. Arthur was hunting a hart with his advisor Urien and Accolon of Gaul, who, unbeknownst to him, was the lover of his conniving sister Morgan le Fay, who had wanted him dead for some time so that she could gain power. The hunting party happened upon a ship full of beautiful women, and boarded it, each of them retiring to separate rooms for the night. Indy smiled ruefully as he read through the dense handwritten script. A ship of beautiful women… _Only in Arthurian legend, my friend, _he thought. _Only in legend._

He read on. When Arthur awoke in the morning, he found himself in a dungeon in a distant castle, while Urien had been transported back to Camelot. Morgan, disguised as a serf, told him that he could win his freedom if he bested Accolon in single combat. But she had given her lover Excalibur and its scabbard, and the unknowing king got merely a fake copy. It was an incredibly one-sided fight; Arthur's sword did nothing to Accolon, while his wounds became more and more severe. But just when all seemed lost, Niniane, the Lady of the Lake, arrived, and cast a spell that caused Accolon to drop the sword. Arthur seized the moment, taking up his mighty sword and dealing the man a mortal blow. 

Arthur regained his magical equipment, but Morgan escaped. The king himself started to make his way back to Camelot, and one night as he slept his sister came into his chambers and, unable to take Excalibur, which he held in his sleep, she took the scabbard, and threw it into the lake it had been taken from before Arthur could get her.

_Jesus, _Indy thought. It truly was locked beneath field of blue, and according to this it did hold unmatched power; whoever held it could not be harmed by any weapon, which essentially meant they couldn't bleed to death.

But he shook himself out of it. He was here to locate the sword, not the scabbard, and the whole thing was just a myth, anyway.

…Wasn't it?


	5. At the Feet of Christ

Author's Note: Well, it's been... a while. Sorry, guys, I'm going to Phillips Exeter right now, and I have classes 'till six, then homework 'till eleven. I have Christmas break right now, so I'm trying to get back into this. Umm, anyway, kind of a short chapter, and it has a lot of description, so let me know if it's excessive (constructive critisism I like). Next chapter will be up in a few days, I think, since I know what I'm going to write. Sorry to keep you waiting. But whatever, here it is.

Disclaimer: No more disclaimers- you know I don't own Indiana Jones.

**Indiana Jones and the Spirits of Avalon**

**By Clansman Sam**

Chapter 5: At the Feet of Christ

The darkness was all around him; the air was dank and hot, and the key was slippery in his sweaty hands; he was back in the tomb. The skylight seemed miles above him now, the spikes closing in, but as he backed himself against a wall all he cared about was the scene before him. There was the snake, its head the smiling face of Panama Hat, wrapping itself around Vivian. She stood still, merely waving as his grasp became tighter and tighter. Then the snake reached out, his serpentine tongue lashing out and grabbing the key. "Thank you, Jones," he said, and whipped his body around. Indy lunged towards Vivian but missed by inches… The spikes were grinding into him… She just waved one last time, and disappeared…

The shrill ringing of a telephone shocked him awake. Indy groaned and rolled over in his king-sized bed, picking up the receiver. "Hullo?" he muttered.

"Your wakeup call, Doctor Jones," said a rather chipper voice from the other end.

"Right. Thanks…" He hung up, stretched, and threw off the sheets. Canning had said he would pick them up at eight thirty the next morning. Right now it was eight, so he had time to take a shower. A rush of cold water might do him some good.

But feet away from the bathroom, there was a knock at his door. Indy didn't know who it was, but he could venture a guess. Walking over, he pulled it open. "Vivian?"

"Indiana," she said, with at least a little warmth. He opened the door farther, and she walked in, her eyes narrowing as she took in his somewhat underdressed and bleary-eyed appearance. "Why aren't you ready? Charles… er, Dr. Canning called earlier this morning to say that he'd be coming at 7:30, rather than eight. He didn't…?"

"No," Indy muttered, glancing woefully at the bathroom door and the shower that would've awaited him there. "It must have skipped his mind." He pulled a pair of work pants out of his duffel and put them on, then took out a shirt. Vivian watched him as he dressed, a sad look in her eye. "Something wrong?" he asked.

She shook her head fervently. "No, no, of course not…" She looked at him, smiling unconvincingly, "I'm sorry I was so dismissive of you last night, Indy. It's just…" She pursed her lips. "Anyway, you should get ready." She reached out and touched his arm, then walked back out of the door.

Indy slung his work bag over his shoulder, then fixed the fedora to his head. _Talk about mixed messages, _he thought, and began to follow Vivian downstairs. Just as he came to the door, the phone rang. He paused, then dismissed it. _Probably just the front desk again, _he thought groggily, and closed his door.

As he reached the lobby, Charles Canning came into view. "Dr. Jones!" he exclaimed happily, clapping Indy on the back. "Terribly sorry about the early wakeup, chap, I forgot to tell you…"

Indy smirked. "Ha ha ha…" He yanked Canning closer by the front of his shirt and muttered, "When I finish this assignment, I'm going to knock your face in." Then he let go and grinned unconvincingly around at the confused guests, as if nothing had happened.

Canning smoothed himself out, looking nervous. But just as quickly as he had exposed his anxiety, he exchanged it for a sneer. "_If _you finish this assignment, Dr. Jones. Only if." He gestured to the revolving doors. "Professor Monroe is waiting in the car."

"Swell." Indy walked outside behind the excavator, thoughts shooting through his head like bullets. _If _he survived? If? Did that mean he was somehow connected to…

He banished it from his mind and got into the passenger's seat. Vivian sat behind him, dressed sensibly for the long workday ahead of them. She smiled quickly at Indy, who tried to return it. But something told him that this was no regular job. He just couldn't put his finger on what it actually was.

The Ford coughed to life and began to speed through the streets. Indy turned his eyes to the window, desperate to turn his mind away from whatever awaited him at the dig site. Soon they were out of the city. A thick morning mist coated the lush countryside, so much so that Canning had to turn on his headlights. But Indy could still see the beauty of the scenery: rolling hills of verdant green, hay swaying in the fields, cut down with scythes by aging farmers whose small huts were nearby. It was a landscape that, in another situation, he might have given pause to enjoy. But right now, he only fealt an odd sense of dread as the Ford sputtered into Lymington. It was a quaint English village, wonderful in its homely, unhurried way. Most of its inhabitants were just waking up. The sign on the local coffeehouse flipped from Closed to Open, and a few drunks rubbed their eyes and leaned back against the brick wall of the local pub.

As they bounced around a corner in the cobblestone street, the shadow of a massive abbey loomed up through the haze. It still showed traces of its former magnificence, though it had been abandoned long ago by the Catholic monks that had once lived within its walls, left to crumble into ruins that told broken tales of ancient majesty. It had been named after the town it presided over, if he remembered correctly; Lymington Abbey.

The Ford rattled onto the dirt road that led to the monastery's entrance, stopping directly in front of the wrought iron gateway. Canning stepped out, immediately trotting over to a man in olive green fatigues who was positioned at the gate, a 9mm on his hip and an SMG in his hands. They began to speak quickly and quietly, and after around a minute of talking Canning jogged back over. Indy was out now, as was Vivian. "Let's go," he said, motioning to the gate.

Indy nodded placidly. They stepped through the rusted gate, and he glanced warily at the man who Canning had been speaking to. The British archaeologist sidled up to him, immediately noting his confusion. "Oh, no need to fear, Jones, he's supposed to be here. The Royal Army is providing the funding for this project. They have a few men here to make sure it's all going smoothly."

_Yeah, but with machine guns? _Indy didn't ask, instead turning his eyes back to the path ahead of him. The fog was clearing now, the sun finally appearing, and as they stepped into the courtyard it was immediately evident that this was no small excavation. A large segment of the grounds were being dug in grids, and there was a veritable army of diggers working the different sites. Little tan jeeps zoomed around the courtyard, transporting equipment and workers. Indy took a deep breath in, unable to contain a smile. It had been several months since he'd been at a real dig like this, and even under the circumstances it felt damned good.

But as he continued on he noticed that there was a lot of army presence as well. It seemed like the space not taken up by the massive archaeological project was filled with soldiers, strolling around the sites with weapons in hand, barking orders wherever they saw fit, or just milling around, content to let other do the dirty work while they reported back to Her Majesty.

Indy looked at the towering cathedral before him. Twin towers rose menacingly up on either side of the main church, whose long body stretched out behind them in its granite grandeur. But as he looked closer the age and lack of attention showed; it was a shell, thick vines growing up all around it and stained glass windows pockmarked with jagged holes. Somehow it was all the more ominous because of it. He pulled his jacket tighter and followed Canning through the weed-covered oaken doors.

They clanked shut behind him, and the light was immediately dimmed considerably, the sun only able to find a way in through the holes in the windows. A crucifix hung on the back wall, below which was the tapestry he had seen the copy of, but it was the only thing they had kept that would distinguish it as a church. The pews had been removed, leaving a great open space leading up to the high altar, on which rested what looked like a casket. Five men stood there. One of them stepped down and made his way over to them. As he got closer Indy noticed that he wore an eyepatch on his right eye.

"Jones," he said in a kind of perpetually angry voice, sticking his nose up and not offering a hand.

Indy raised an eyebrow. "And you are…"

"Sergeant Thorpe, Royal Army. You answer to me."

"I _see,_" Indy said, deadpan. Thorpe scowled at the subtle jibe, touched his eyepatch, and turned his back to them. They followed him up to the altar, and as soon as he reached the stone casket, he peered inside.

"Try not to faint," Canning was saying. Indy ignored him; the contents of the casket were far more interesting than the witless Brit behind him. Inside was, unsurprisingly, a skeleton, monk's robes hanging in tatters around the bones. His arms were outstretched, and the fingers of his right hand appeared to have been gripping something. Indy turned to look at Canning. "Was he holding the key?"

Canning nodded. "We slid the top off the casket and this bastard just kind of leaned forward with the thing in his hand."

"Where is it?" he asked. Canning produced it and handed it over. "Doesn't look like you've made much headway," Indy muttered.

The Brit didn't seem very inclined to respond, but finally he shook his head. "We've found other interesting items, but nothing that relates to the sword." Indy nodded, inwardly smug that this bigheaded idiot was in need of his help.

He weighed the key in his hand for a moment, thinking. The skeleton was faced to the right side of the church, the key pointing the same way… He looked to the right. Directly in front of him was a floor-to-ceiling stained glass window, portraying the birth of Christ. There was Joseph, standing behind Mary with the Three Wise Men, and there was Jesus, cradled in the arms of his virgin mother. But there was something about it… the way he was reaching out, almost in the exact same way that the skeletal monk had been… and his finger was pointed towards the far right corner of the church…

Indy spun around. Another stained glass window with a Biblical scene, this one of the boy Jesus at the temple. This time he had his hand raised upwards as if he was asking a question. It looked natural enough, but when he followed the direction of Christ's outstretched hand—

Indy gasped. The ceiling was adorned with a magnificent, Michelangelo-like fresco, one depicting in great detail the crucifixion of Jesus. How had he not noticed it? He turned to Canning, incensed.

The head archaeologist merely shrugged. "We didn't think it was all that important, Jones. And anyway, we thought it might be something a world-renowned antiquities finder like yourself could find it without assistance." Thorpe snickered openly.

"You could've at least told me to keep an _eye _out for it," Indy said, looking straight at the sergeant. He stiffened, and reflexively fingered his eyepatch.

Feeling a little better at his small triumph, Indy looked again at the fresco. At the end nearest him the crowd began, all clamoring to see the sinners on the cross. And at the far end were those being crucified. In the center, obviously, was Christ, nailed to the cross, emaciated, apostles gathered around him in prayer. This part of the fresco was where the child Christ had been pointing, but nevertheless it seemed like any normal, albeit dramatic, rendition of the crucifixion. There was no obvious direction to look towards, as in the others. Where…

Vivian came to his side. She had been silent this entire time, as had the others, watching him methodically make his mental way through the church. She looked at him, a twinkle in her eye. "I saw the same thing, Indy," she said. "Christ pointing in different directions, all leading up to this."

He felt a surge of pride that she had seen it too. "But I can't find…" he started.

"What's that below his feet?" Vivian suddenly asked, pointing to a spot at the base of the cross.

And all of a sudden he could see it as well. The paint was beginning to peel away, but there was something there, something meant to glow—"It's a key!" Indy shouted. "It's a key! That's where this goes, below the feet of Christ!" He whipped around, realization dawning. The feet of Christ…

"The crucifix," he and Vivian murmured in synchrony. He ran over to it, key in hand. It was an average-sized sculpture, polished stone with the paint all but worn to nothing. His eyes followed an invisible line, down from the base of the statue to the dirt-covered floor. His imaginary line came down right in the center of one of the granite tiles. Indy got his fingers around it and, hoping against hope, wrenched upwards.

The tile slid out easily. He placed it on the ground and turned back to see what was inside, Vivian beaming at him. It was a keyhole, right in the stone. Canning was in awe as well, but he was attempting to disguise it with a look of repugnance. Thorpe, however, was making no attempt to conceal his amazement. "Well then, Jones, let's see if it fits," he said, glassy eyed.

Indy nodded, adjusted his fedora, and in one quick motion put the key in its hole. He glanced back. "Here goes nothing," he said, and twisted it until it clicked.

With a giant rumble, the main section of the floor began to slide outwards, revealing what looked to be a bottomless hole. Two of Thorpe's men jumped out of the way as the opening widened, and then just as suddenly it stopped with a crack, dust swirling around it. A staircase came into view, descending inexorably into the pit of blackness.

Indy swiveled around, grinning at the stunned people before him. "Who wants to go first?"


	6. Out of the Dark

Author's Note: That's right! Another chapter! I don't completely suck at updating! Oh, and, though it might seem insignificant, a few changes to note: there's another conversation w/ Jack Shannon in chap. 4, there's more added to the legend later in that chapter, and the type of gun the soldiers carry in chap. 5 was changed. Keep that in mind!

**Indiana Jones and the Spirits of Avalon**

**By Clansman Sam**

Chapter 6: Out of the Dark

Thorpe's men, originally the picture of gruff masculinity with their assorted weaponry, began to back away from the opening, eyes wide as dinner plates. Indy's grin widened. These guys might've known twenty different ways to kill somebody, but right now they were completely out of their element.

Canning, however, didn't appear to have the same concerns. "No time for pats on the back, Jones, time is of the essence." He strolled over to the wall, wrenched a torch from its holder, and produced a box of matches. Indy didn't bother to ask why they were on such a tight schedule. Canning would just snap at him, or try to subtly tell him that he was a dunce.

The Brit struck a match and lit the top, then shoved the torch into Indy's face. "You're the expert," he said sourly. "You go first."

Indy took it, then turned to the perilous staircase. Vivian fell in behind them, and they began the descent. It was dangerous, all right; no banister, and one misstep put you right off the edge. The young Jones walked slowly but assuredly, holding the flame up high. Every step put them farther into the icy darkness, and soon enough the only light came from the torch. The air was thick with must. Indy shivered and continued down.

His booted foot crunched as it came into contact with the stone. One foot in front of the other. His eyes were focused intently on the steps before him, only two of which were visible. It was impossible to tell how far the drop was, but Indy didn't want to find out. It seemed like everyone had the same feeling; no sound came from any of the party, save for the mumbled prayers of one of Thorpe's regiment, positioned right behind Vivian—

Suddenly there was a crack, stone separating from stone, and the man's prayers turned into a scream of terror. Indy had just enough time to look behind him; the man was tumbling forward, and Vivian screamed as he knocked into her. They both flew to the left, propelled into the gap. Indy reacted immediately. Sliding onto his back, he threw his hands out, grasping for Vivian. He found her hand, and held onto it even when the slick sweat threatened to separate them. And there was still screaming, long and uninterrupted until a wet thump stopped it abruptly.

Canning wrapped his arms around Indy and pulled him up, he and Vivian collapsing onto the stairs. The British archaeologist gazed over the edge, breathing heavily. "I'd say that's about a hundred feet, give or take," he muttered in an attempt at a calm tone.

Indy glanced back, amazed at the man's heartlessness, but Canning refused to catch his eye. He looked instead at Vivian, still trembling slightly but controlling herself. "You okay?" he asked.

"I- I will be," she answered, then swallowed hard and stood back up. "Let's keep going."

He nodded. Canning lit a match, a thoroughly meager light source, and they kept going. Slowly, ever so slowly, Indy's mind still on the dead soldier that Canning had so callously dismissed. Who were these people? And how had he allowed himself to walk straight into the unknown with gun-toting mystery men at his back?

He didn't have much time to ponder, for soon the staircase came to an end. A tunnel stretched forward ceaselessly, lined with unlit torches. He grabbed one, and Canning lit his and got one for himself. They began to walk, Indy holding his torch to the rough rock walls, which seemed to be painted with hieroglyph-like symbols. An unsheathed sword, a jagged line that Indy thought represented water, and, on a flat line below the roughly drawn surface of the water, something like sunbeams, emanating from the bottom. Indy had some idea of what the symbols meant, but, with one shifty look at Canning, he decided that telling the coldly unfeeling Brit about everything wasn't such a great idea. Instead he picked up the pace, aware that the other members of the party were getting ahead.

The tunnel was long and unlit, the only beams being cast by Indy and Canning's torches. But Canning, at point, had a beam coming from his torch that could almost reach the equally dark end of the tunnel. Stalactites hung down low enough to be in view, and Indy's stomach suddenly lurched with the thought that the end of the tunnel might be the end of the road.

"Bloody hell," Canning murmured, peering down from the edge of the tunnel. His fears confirmed, Indy rushed to the end and looked downwards. The beam of his torch extended for perhaps ten feet, enough for him to see that it was another pit, this one extending unknowably deep and around forty feet wide. Indy leaned out from the edge and dropped his torch, a rough but effective way of gauging depth.

Their eyes followed the orange light as it dropped silently through the air. But about forty feet down, still in sight, its descent was halted by a stone outcropping, smooth enough that it looked manmade. And, in the center it, there was what appeared to be some sort of a lever...

Indy looked back at the group that had crowded around the edge, then at Canning. The Brit was smirking at him, a rope around his shoulder that he had obtained from one of the soldiers.

"Me first," Indy sighed. "Right."

The assemblage backed up, and Canning tied one end of the rope to a sturdy torch holder. He then pulled out some slack, handed it over to Indy, and grabbed up the rest of the slack, gripping it firmly. Indy wrapped the thick rope around his waist. His eyes met for a brief moment with Vivian's. She looked greatly concerned, but Indy winked at her. Then he nodded to Canning and hopped backwards into the musty air.

X

Twenty feet down, rappelling became methodical. The rock crunched under his boots as he swung into it, Canning giving him slack as he went. Swing, crunch, swing, crunch. Indy stole a glance down. The glowing light was getting nearer with every swing. It was by mere luck that the torch had landed on the outcropping, and that it had kept burning. But Indy tried to get that thought out of his mind; luck was something that ran out. And if and when that happened, he was up the creek without a paddle. No, dammit, he had to rely on something else, something that would keep going. He had to rely on sheer willpower to get him to the end of the tunnel. Or, in this case, the source of the torchlight.

Swing, crunch, swing, crunch... "Slack!" Indy yelled. He had reached the top of an overhang, bulging like some vertical boulder on the face of the cliff. He rappelled down, hanging out dangerously far into the empty space. Then the overhang tapered off back into the rock face. Indy's next swing put him in midair, his legs bicycling uselessly, his body hanging ten feet out from the flat rock. The outcropping was only about six feet down. He called again for slack, and soon enough he was parallel to the torch lit stopping point. But he was still about five feet out from it. He'd have to detach himself from the rope and swing onto it.

Indy pulled his jacket sleeve up onto his hand and wrapped the rope around it twice. Making sure of the grip, he began to undo the knot he'd put in to secure it to his waist. Finally it began to come out. Gritting his teeth, he pulled it loose.

Gravity took him without hesitation. He lurched downward, his arm popping as he jolted to a halt. Indy ignored the pain, instead grabbing the rope with his free hand and unwrapping the other one so it wouldn't catch when he let go.

"What the hell's going on down there?" Canning yelled from the top.

"I'm too far out to drop onto it," Indy bellowed. "I detached myself from the rope... I have to swing in!"

"Jesus Christ," Canning said, just loud enough for him to hear. "You Americans and your obsession with death..."

Indy didn't answer. Instead he swung out hard, kicking his legs for more effect. He got close to the edge, swayed back, then careened forward again. Closer, closer... the rope reached its height. Indy let go.

The motion carried him toward the edge, but he was dropping fast. It suddenly didn't seem like he'd make it, but he threw his arms out and got his upper body onto the outcropping. Indy grunted and pulled himself up. And there he was. He smiled despite himself. He'd made it, and death obsession be damned. "I got it!" he hollered.

Canning's face appeared over the lip of the tunnel. "Defying all logic..." he sneered. "Pull the lever, then, Jones, don't be stupid!"

Indy swallowed his anger and yanked down on the lever. Immediately the rock above him cracked, the fissure snaking down halfway to the outcropping. Then the rock came alive, groaning open much like the opening to the staircase. Only this time a thin stone bridge slid out of the gap. It ground to a halt at the other end of the crevasse.

"All right, Dr. Jones!" Thorpe yelled, glancing over the crevasse. "Get back to the rope, and we'll pull you up!"

_Right, _Indy thought. _Easy... _The rope was only, well, five feet away. He cracked his neck and backed up against the rock wall. _Three, two, one- _he kicked off the wall and sprinted forward, feet barely touching the ground. Closer, closer... He threw himself off the edge, flying into the air. The momentum carried him only so far, though, and after three feet he was dropping fast. He clawed air, his hands groping for the rope, and finally his hands clenched around the bottom of it. His hands burned, but Indy began up, hand over hand. "Okay! Pull!"

And they started to pull, however slowly. Soon enough he at the top, beads of perspiration on his brow. Thorpe inspected him from above. "Good work," he said. "But we haven't the time."

Indy pulled himself up. As the other men got themselves together, Vivian rushed over. "Are you all right?" she asked, seeming genuinely distressed.

Indy made an attempt at a roguish grin. "All in a day's work, hon," he said, sliding his hands around her waist. She moved in closer, her emotions all but impossible to read. She seemed happy to be with him, but what else.

He wasn't allowed much time to ruminate. Canning hollered out that it was time to go, and he turned to the rock bridge. Vivian pulled him down to her with the pretense of a peck on the cheek, but as her lips touched his skin she whispered, "Be ready." Then she pulled away.

Indy didn't respond, but as the party started across the bridge, his hand went down to the holstered Webley, pulling back the hammer with a near inaudible click.

X

They progressed quickly, considering the fact that one of the party had already plummeted to their death. For the first time, Canning hadn't insisted Indy be at the head of the line, but now he wished he was leading. The soldier in front of him was shaking like a leaf, and a morbidly afraid person with an automatic weapon was, in his opinion, not a good thing. But, for some reason, he wasn't at all scared. His heart was racing, but for some reason, he felt ready. Ready for what, he didn't know, but that somehow didn't seem like an issue.

The bridge came to an end. Indy stepped off and looked at what was next.

A staircase. Another goddamn staircase. But this one spiraled upwards, enclosed by mildewed brick walls. He looked over at Canning, who nodded at him. "Upwards and onwards," the Brit muttered. He had taken out a Browning 9mm, and he was holding it like he knew what he was doing. It unnerved Indy a little, but the calm, prepared air that had come over him remained. He fell in behind Canning, and they started up.

The Excalibur hieroglyphs were on these walls, too, and he examined them in passing by the dim light of Canning's torch. Two halves of a sword, broken... from the bout between Pellinor and Arthur, maybe. The broken halves were far apart, and in the middle of them was a repeat of the other symbols. The lake, with a glowing light at the bottom. Committing the images to memory, he continued up the damp steps. Oddly enough, though, the staircase was getting brighter, as though another light source was being added to the torch. And after a few more upward spirals, the source was revealed; a shattered paned glass window. Which meant that...

"We're in the bloody tower!" Canning shouted in frustration. "That's where this whole thing leads to, the top of the tower! I should've dynamited the bloody thing, and saved us all the trouble!" He growled and kept going, stopping on the top landing. There before them was a door, one which led to the top of the tower and the end of their hellish experience in the bowels of the abbey. But Canning made no move towards it. Instead he looked at the objects in front of it with disgust.

Indy followed his gaze. There were at least four skeletons there, lying in pieces on the ground. Blackened blood stained the brick walls. What had happened to the people there? And how the hell were they going to get in?

They all stood stock-still, eyeing the door. The handle was brass, and all one had to do was pull on it. Indy raised an eyebrow. "That's how they died..." he said. "They pulled the door open, and it activated something."

"However," Canning said, "that still leaves the problem of _us _opening the door without suffering the same fate."

Indy looked sideways at him. "Unless..." He pulled the bullwhip from his belt loop, cracked it over his head, and snapped it outwards. It wrapped around the handle. He let out a short breath and pulled back.

There was a grinding sound, and a rounded blade dislodged from the left wall. It swung across the length of the room, glinting menacingly in the torchlight, and receded back into its starting position. Indy stepped forward slowly. "So... if it's activated by opening the door, and it's already open, then by all rights..." He stepped across the threshold.

The blade stayed where it was. Indy couldn't help a smug look back at Canning as the rest of them came through. Then he turned back, led the party up a small set of stone steps, through an arched doorway, and they were there. Indy took it all in. There was another door on the far right. The warm lighting from the large paned glass window, which spanned the top half of the back wall, fell on the sparse furnishings, among them a wooden bench and a few tapestries. And, in the center of the room, an altar, adorned with red felt and on top of which...

He ran to the altar. It was one half of a sword, the blade coming up only about five inches before it ended in a jagged edge. The hilt was gleamed in the warm light, jewels studding its surface. His heart began to race. Arthur's first sword... it couldn't be...

Vivian was behind him, shocked at the discovery. She eyed it without speaking, as if to do so would be almost sacrilegious. But she brought her hand up, her finger tracing the hilt, and as she did so her eyes narrowed. "Indy," she whispered, "feel this." He put his own hand on the same spot, aware that Canning and the rest of them were watching from behind. All along the surface there were indentations, invisible to the naked eye. "Canning, look at this... There are words here. If I could get some dye, I could bring them to light."

"Thanks for the suggestion, Jones." Canning's voice came from right behind him. And even as he turned to see, Indy realized that he was far too close, that Vivian was struggling against Thorpe's grip in the corner of his vision--

Canning kicked him viscously in the back of the legs. He dropped to his knees, the sword sliding across the floor. One of the soldiers immediately grabbed hold of his hands and twisting them behind his back. "And thank you," the Brit continued, "for getting me thus far. But I think I can take it from here." The click of a hammer resonated in his ear. "Look on the bright side," he sneered. "You'll get to see your friend Brody, for he's soon to follow!"


End file.
